


in the dark

by prouvairing



Series: Demigod AU [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demigods, Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, Gen, Lycanthropes, Parnasse Being Fabulous, Swordfighting, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Correction: everything <i>was</i> shit, but it is nothing compared to the pile of trouble in which he finds himself now, and so, if you asked him, he’d tell you that everything <i>was</i> going fairly well.<br/>Until he’d met the lycanthropes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the dark

_"Burn everything you love  
Then burn the ashes"_

 

 

A couple of weeks after he left Camp, everything is going fairly well. At least if you ask Grantaire.

Yes, he’s broke. Yes, he’s in _sore_ need of a shower. Yes, he’s met, in order: two empousai, a gryphon, and a flock of karpoi (nasty motherfuckers).

Yes, he has no idea where and how he’ll get lunch.

But Chiron taught him how to manipulate Mist, and that has saved him a few times. Plus no matter how much he scorned training, eight years of it made him skilled enough that monsters easily turn to dust under his blade.

Well, regular monsters, that is.

Because, to be perfectly honest, everything is shit, and the only thing that keeps him from running back to Camp with his tail between his legs is the utter _freedom_ of his misery. He’s gotten rid of the suffocating shadow of his father’s presence (although his legacy is still a pain in the ass), and he had to exchange it with loneliness, but that’s okay. He’d known that, when he’d made his decision.

Correction: everything _was_ shit, but it is nothing compared to the pile of trouble in which he finds himself now, and so, if you asked him, he’d tell you that everything _was_ going fairly well.

Until he’d met the lycanthropes.

(Whom, just FYI, _cannot be hurt by celestial bronze_ and yeah, he wishes he’d known that a little earlier).

“ _Di immortales,_ ” he swears, as he runs faster than he’s ever run before. For good measure, he adds, “Gods, _fuck!_ ”

You probably shouldn’t insult the gods, but fuck that noise - he may think that Enjolras’ plans for revolution will never go anywhere, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t share in his frustration towards their godly parents.

He can hear the wolves snarl and bite at his heels, and he knows, he _knows_ he isn’t fast enough. The longest he’s slept, in the last forty-eight hours, was a two-hour nap on a bench in the train station. The bruises he got from the karpoi still sting because he didn’t dare eat any more ambrosia (both in fear of going up in flames like a birthday candle and because he doesn’t know what he’ll do when he runs out). He wouldn’t be able to outrun them if he were in his best shape – and he definitely isn’t.

So he stops running.

He whips around, back against the open road – flanked by the forest on both sides, not a soul in sight, probably miles away from yet another Nowhere, WA. The pinprick lights of the lycanthropes’ eyes pierce the darkness, and they snarl low in their throats. Though fear has frozen his insides, Grantaire snarls back, “Well, you got me, didn’t you? Come on, you mangy bastards, COME _ON!_ ”

When the first wolf jumps at him, Grantaire already has vines cracking through the asphalt to bury themselves in the monster’s belly. It drains him, and he isn’t even sure that it’ll work, but it’s all he’s got.

 _Come on, you asshole, do this one thing for me_ , he thinks, and suddenly he has enough strength to rise his vines higher and block the next two lycanthropes that attempt to bite his head off.

He holds his sword up, subconsciously, even though he knows that it’ll pass right through the damn things without as much as ruffling their fur.

He knows he’s done for.

He barely has time to wonder whether he’s earned Elysium, since he went down fighting.

Then the cracks he’s made in the street get larger. The ground shakes, and he is thrown back to land on his ass.

And _fucking zombies_ start crawling out of the earth.

If Grantaire didn’t spend most of his days fighting monsters, he’d be suitably freaked out. As it is, he is only mildly surprised.

The skeletons attack the wolves, distracting them for the time being, and Grantaire feels a tap on his shoulder. Something glints at the corner of his eye, and when he turns, he finds himself face-to-face with a shining knife.

The boy holding the knife looks calm and put together, although his hand shakes just barely with effort. He’s wearing all-black, almost unironically goth. He has red lips and black wells for eyes.

“Silver,” the boy says, low and smooth. “It’s your only chance against those things.”

Then he bounces ahead almost merrily, a smile plastered to his lips, and slashes a wolf’s throat without breaking a sweat.

Grantaire sits on his ass a moment longer. Then he thinks, _Fuck it_ , and gets up to tackle the nearest lycanthrope. The monster’s jaw snaps, but now, with a weapon that works, Grantaire can apply his years of training and _you’re mine, motherfucker._

The silver sinks in the fur easily, slices it like butter _– finally_ – and ichor bubbles up through Grantaire’s fingers for a moment, before the wolf crumbles to dust.

Between that, the boy’s skeletons, and Grantaire’s vines, they’re soon standing in the empty street, silent, panting, and covered in golden ash.

The boy’s shoulders are heaving, and his skin is tense over his cheekbones. He’s still smiling, but his earth-splitting trick left him just as drained as Grantaire. His chuckle is dark and harsh, “We’re lucky Lycaon wasn’t here.”

“Right,” Grantaire huffs, and sticks the silver knife in his left boot, mirroring the celestial bronze one at his right. He has no fucking idea who Lycaon is. “So, hey, just for the record – who in Hades are you?”

The boy’s smile splits his face in two. “Funny you’d use that expression,” he says, and extends a hand towards Grantaire, who eyes it suspiciously. “Montparnasse, son of Hades. Pleasure’s yours.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but shakes Montparnasse’s hand all the same. “Should’ve guessed you were a Zombie Boy. I’m Grantaire. R, if you like.”

Montparnasse doesn’t blink at being called _Zombie Boy_ , but glances at the mess they’ve made of the street instead. “Let me guess… Demeter?”

“ _Please,_ ” Grantaire scoffs. “As if. No, I’m Dionysus.”

Montparnasse positively _lights up_ and Grantaire has to raise his hands and warn him. “Hey, before you say anything: _yes_ , I can get you booze, but _no_ , I can’t materialize it. So, we’ll have to go buy it like everyone else.”

It is Montparnasse’s turn to scoff. “ _Buy_ ,” he says, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Then he digs in his pockets to fish out a pack of cigarettes. He offers one to Grantaire with a smirk.

“Covers the smell of demigod,” Montparnasse says, when he hesitates.

Grantaire takes one. “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

Montparnasse shrugs and silently lights his cigarette, stark shadows flickering on his cheekbones. He puffs out a cloud that looks almost white in the dim light. “Well, I haven’t ever been attacked while I was smoking one.”

Grantaire can practically _see_ Combeferre snort and push his glasses up his nose, as he mutters, _Correlation does not equal causation._ He says nothing.

It starts like this: lots of coughing as he takes his first drag, Montparnasse laughing at him but showing him how to do it right. Then, making rings of smoke to impress him.

It doesn’t feel as soft as Jehan’s hair through his fingers, nor does it burn like one of Enjolras’ scalding glares. It isn’t Courfeyrac sharing in on a joke, or Feuilly’s grease-stained cheeks when he’s just out of his workshop. It isn’t a tussle with Bahorel during Capture the Flag or Cosette making rainbows in the sea-spray.

It isn’t as warm as that yet, but it’s still someone to share his misery with. The way they laugh together is rough, sharp as blades, but it isn’t silence, and that is enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I live [here](http://seagreeneyes.tumblr.com) and my writing lives here [here](http://prouvairing.tumblr.com), if you ever want to stop by :)  
> Song: My songs know what you did in the dark by Fall Out Boy, which started this one  
> (and if anyone's wondering, Cosette is a daughter of Iris and about to have her own fic)


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